


This Above All: To Thine Ownself Be True

by five_of_five



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: i_reversebang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/five_of_five/pseuds/five_of_five
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eames wakes to find himself cable tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse with Arthur standing over him holding a gun, all he can think is that he should have known better.</p><p>The story of one room, two people and a fuck-load of issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Above All: To Thine Ownself Be True

**Author's Note:**

> **Art Prompt Title:**[Untitled](http://s654.photobucket.com/albums/uu267/FiveOfFive/?action=view&current=AE.jpg)  
>  **Artist:**[](http://kairosx.livejournal.com/profile)[ **kairosx**](http://kairosx.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Warnings:** Abuse of the classics, kidnapping, light bondage sex, strong language  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own “Inception”, “Hamlet”, or “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead”
> 
>  **Thanks:**  
> [](http://poprock-pixie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **poprock_pixie**](http://poprock-pixie.livejournal.com/) : Thank you so much for letting me talk your ear off for hours on end about this fic.  
> [](http://gelbwax.livejournal.com/profile)[ **gelbwax**](http://gelbwax.livejournal.com/) : You have my eternal thanks, love and devotion for being the best damn beta in the UNIVERSE! I could not have done this without you! &hearts

_The play’s the thing  
Wherein I’ll catch the conscious of the king  
\- Hamlet_

Arthur loves the theater. He always has, the magic of the stage stirs a wonder in him that big screens and Hollywood glitz can never touch. There is something about sitting in an audience, able to reach out and _touch_ the action, that makes everything else pale in comparison.

The first play he ever saw preformed live was “Hamlet”. From the very first scene where the ghost of Hamlet’s father glided across the stage, the story captivated his imagination. To this day it remains one of his favorites; nostalgia is a powerful force not to be reckoned with. Besides, “Hamlet” has everything; love and hate, murder and suicide, secret alliances and hidden agendas.

“Hamlet” is also full of betrayal. There’s the father who uses his daughter to bait a prince. Brother killing brother and the wife weds her husband’s murderer. The prince who uses love and madness to manipulate the entire court, including the woman he supposedly loves. And as always happens with so much betrayal, the innocent are the ones who pay.

Looking down at Eames’ unconscious form on the floor, Arthur doesn’t have to wonder why “Hamlet” is so much on his mind.

~*~*~

 _Audiences know what they expect and that is all they are prepared to believe in.  
\- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_

He should have known better.

No, please, no cries of “it could happen to anyone” or “there was no way you could have seen such a thing coming”. Because while this _could_ happen to anyone, Eames is not “anyone”, and he _should_ have seen this coming. If only he had known better, he would have.

Eames had been drunk, not an excuse by any means, simply a fact. The job he’d just finished had been surprisingly interesting, the camaraderie excellent and the paycheck substantial, luck was with him so why not knock a few back and enjoy the many pleasures Marseille had to offer. He was quite proud of himself, he hadn’t broken any laws his entire stay, well no laws that really mattered…well no laws that could lead back to him. No pissed off marks looking for retribution, no overzealous cops with zero sense of humor, no reason to be on his guard.

Which is exactly why he should have been. The Universe loves nothing better than to fuck you over when you get complacent. A lesson Eames thought he’d learned long ago.

But Arthur played his part perfectly and Eames was most unsatisfactorily cast in the role of the Fool. So instead of being alert and questioning what Arthur was doing at a dive bar in Marseille rather than touring La Vieille Charite, Eames had counted himself doubly lucky and ordered them both a round. Instead of wondering why Arthur was joining him for in a “friendly drink” when he had flatly turned down Eames’ last thirty-seven invitations for just such an outing, Eames leaned into the warm press of Arthur’s body beside his own and ordered another round. Instead of asking himself why Arthur of all people was interested in a routine job like militarizing some blowhard businessman’s mind, he blathered on about his own brilliance and signaled the bartender for yet another round. Instead of being healthily paranoid and vigilant of his surroundings he’d trusted Arthur to watch his drink while he was in the loo, downing the remaining scotch when he got back. The drugs Arthur slipped him had taken hold and he was unconscious before the last round came.

These are the actions, Eames muses to himself as he takes in his surroundings. That lead to one being cable tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned building.

~*~*~

 _Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.  
\- Hamlet_

The stage is set, the lamps are lit and it’s time for the actors to take their places.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Arthur says briskly, entering the room through a door behind Eames, his voice echoing in the nearly empty space and he sees Eames twitch slightly in surprise. “I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers. I’m going to ask you my questions and you’re gonna tell me your answers. Sound fair?” Arthur comes to a stop in front of Eames chair, crossing his arms and quirking an eyebrow in challenge.

“Not remotely,” Eames deadpans. “But I somehow doubt that I will have much say in the matter.”

Eames liked to play dumb, Arthur knows, but right now Arthur can see dozens of ideas, explanations, escape plans, and possibly dance routines, flying through Eames brain as he discards some, puts others aside for future analysis and grabs onto all that are relevant. This is the part of every job that Arthur has always loved and never before had a chance to observe in such close detail. He never allowed himself the luxury of really _watching_ Eames work. Once he began he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to stop.

But this one time, he’s allowed to look: it’s his job to read Eames so he’ll drink in every detail, because this could be his last opportunity.

Arthur calculates the odds of Eames getting over this little incident and working with Arthur again at approximately seventy-six percent. twenty percent chance he’d walk away from Arthur forever and four percent chance that one of them does something which necessitates killing the other.

Arthur’s fairly confident in his numbers, not because he thinks Eames will want to keep working with him, but the fact is that Eames isn’t going to quit extraction unless he’s made to, just like Arthur. When it comes down to it, Arthur and Eames are the best there is at what they do. Sure Eames might be pissed at him for a little while, but they both enjoy working with the best too much for him to hold the grudge long.

Probably.

Arthur rolls his eyes, clearing his head of trivialities and focusing on the problem before him, namely Eames. He waits for Eames’ customary sideways smirk to make an appearance at Arthur’s rather obvious inattention. And waits. He clears his throat slightly, unwilling to acknowledge the subtle shift in Eames’ posture telegraphing his contempt (and how he managed that given his current physical limitations, Arthur will never know).

“You have plenty of say, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says in his most sincere tone.

“That is a load of bollocks and you know it, Arthur.” Unfortunately for Arthur, Eames was the one who first taught him how to fake sincerity.

“Fine then, you have no choice in the matter,” Arthur snaps. “Does that make you feel better? You won’t be responsible for anything you tell me, I forced you. Happy?”

“I’d be a lot happier if you freed me now and allowed me to help you get out of whatever trouble it is that has you kidnapping coworkers.” Eames sighs his arm tensing momentarily before he remembers that he can’t move, and Arthur’s fingers practically _itch_ wanting to complete the motion for him. If Eames were unbound he’d be running his hand through his hair and across his face in exasperation. Grey-blue eyes cutting through Arthur with a glance.

“I’m not in trouble, Eames, just in need of information,” Arthur grits out, _fuck_ but Eames is frustrating and wasting time like this isn’t doing either of them any good. “If you want your freedom so badly then it’s really very simple. I’m going to ask you some questions and you are going to answer them. And if you’re a very good boy, by the end of all this I’ll release you.”

Eames looks up at him skeptically and Arthur feels himself frowning, of course Eames doesn’t believe him. Why would the pain in the ass make anything easy? Sure Arthur kidnapped Eames, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a man of his word.

“When you say that you’ll ‘release’ me, what exactly do you mean Arthur?” Eames licks his lips; on anyone else Arthur would say it was a sign of nerves. “Will you ‘release’ me in the sense that you shall cut the bonds which keep me here, allowing me to walk freely from this building, never to be bothered by you again?”

Arthur feels something suspiciously close to his heart clench at the thought, his earlier reassurances that he and Eames will be fine sounding hollow.

“Or,” Eames pauses, his voice lowering as his eyes narrow shrewdly, “Do you mean that you’ll slit my throat and ‘release’ me from my mortal bonds before feeding my body through a woodchipper and using the mulch to fertilize your garden?”

A slight smile starts to slip across Arthur’s face before he realizes that Eames isn’t joking. His eyes are hard and his is jaw tight, Arthur’s never seen Eames look this…implacable before. Arthur’s smile dies before it has a chance to live.

There’s a metaphor somewhere in there that Arthur really doesn’t want to look at too closely.

~*~*~

 _The bad end unhappily, the good unluckily, that is what tragedy means.  
\- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_

Maybe woodchippers had been pushing it slightly, but Eames is having something of trying day and frankly he’s entitled to some theatrics.

They’d be a lot more fun though if Arthur didn’t look like Eames had just dropkicked his puppy. Eames closes his eyes briefly, he’s been conscious maybe twenty minutes and already he’s wishing he hadn’t bothered.

Eames had woken slowly, consciousness coming in like the tide, lapping around the edges then receding only to come back a little further with the next wave. He kept perfectly still throughout the process, his brain firing long before he allowed his body to move.

The first priority was assessing his physical condition.

Well, that didn’t take long. Hands bound behind his back, cable ties by the feel of the plastic biting into his skin, legs similarly immobilized, head…pounding. So put all together his physical condition was less than optimal. In fact, it was well on the way to being completely fucked.

Second priority: Location, also known as, where the fucking hell is he?

A bit more difficult, last he remembered he’d been in a seedy bar that made other seedy bars feel smug…what was its name? Ah, yes. Le Petit Pêcheur, The Little Fisherman, it had seemed quaint at the time…of course he was already halfway to drunk when he entered the bar, but no matter. Then Arthur had joined him and…right. Well this was all no one’s fault but his own. He really should have known better.

But time and tide wait for no man and all that. Priority three was out of the way, he knew how he got here now and judging by his internal clock he hadn’t been unconscious for long, doubtful that even someone of Arthur’s resourcefulness would be able to whisk him out of the country that quickly. So still in France then and…yes, that smell was rather distinctive. A combination of salt water, rotten fish and diesel, put that together with the desolate cries of various seabirds and machinery grinding away in the distance, he was probably being held in one of Marseille’s ports. Knowing Arthur, there would only be a few people around and they’d be so busy unloading freight containers, that they’d never notice one man being held captive in an abandoned warehouse. Besides, the machine noises were too far away for anyone to be in his immediate vicinity anyway. So location would also fall thoroughly into the fucked column.

As previously ascertained, the identity of his host was another strike against the likelihood of him being able to escape easily. Eames knew he’d been in worse situations than this, but never one where his options were quite so hopeless.

The only thing left for him to do was meet his jailor and maybe charm his way out…Eames was so very fucked.

He allowed a slight groan to escape his lips as he made a production of waking up, reassessing his initial situation for the benefit of whomever may be watching, as if he didn’t know. One good thing about being obviously awake, he could tug on his bonds now, see how securely he was held…dear lord the paranoid fucker actually bolted the chair to the floor. Eames resisted the urge to roll his eyes, opening them instead as the last nail in his coffin was hammered home.

The room was large, the building at least two stories going by the rickety staircase he could barely see out of the corner of his right eye. From what he could see, his chair appeared to be in the dead center of the room, a desk stood approximately six feet in front of him. Eames squinted, trying to bring the contents of the desk into clearer focus, file folders it looked like…and yes, there on top was a picture of none other than Eames, not Arthur’s work by the look of it. Too focused on his face and not enough on the details of his surroundings, so Arthur wasn’t working this on his own then, he had help good enough to get a candid of Eames without his clocking them.

Eames felt like he was a peculiar mix of audience and performer in this scenario. The folders had obviously been left for his benefit, but Eames’ position in the room seemed to place him center stage, as it were. A feeling heightened when he noticed the video cameras situated around the room, they must feed in somewhere on-site; probably into a private office, knowing Arthur and his love of a personal work space. This means that Arthur has placed Eames directly in the middle of the action, casting him as both observer and participant. Only with no script to follow he is at a serious disadvantage.

Arthur’s appearance a few moments later was both a blessing and a curse. Eames was always happy to have more information but the confirmation that Arthur was the one who took him…he really should have learned to stop being disappointed in people. But here he was, heart sinking and temper rising. Hence the woodchippers and hopeless feeling that he would have done better to just keep his eyes shut and gone back to sleep.

Eames isn’t sure how long they stare at each other after that acerbic exchange, but he needs to break the silence soon; God knows Arthur’s too stubborn to blink first. If he wants to get some water or take a piss, two things which will make him infinitely more comfortable and will therefore be bought at the high price of information, he’ll need to reestablish a dialogue. Only problem is, Eames hasn’t the foggiest idea of what to say to Arthur anymore.

“I don’t have a garden.”

“Excuse me?” Eames’ mind had been wandering, it’s true, and he’s a bit off his footing as Arthur wasn’t supposed to speak, but _surely_ that was a non sequitur.

“It would be a waste to mulch your body since I don’t have a garden. A yard either, for that matter…or a permanent residence,” Arthur is kind enough to elucidate.

There’s the faintest hint of a smile beginning to turn up one side of Arthur’s mouth. He’s making a joke, not a very good one, but he’s trying and that must cost him. This ought to mean something; Eames desperately wants it to mean something.

Eames pauses, forming a reply; he knows that his response will set the tone for the rest of this interrogation. Eames looks from Arthur’s face, where a full-on dimple-grin is waiting to burst into bloom, to the surveillance photos…and says nothing.

~*~*~

 _I must be cruel, only to be kind:  
Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.  
\- Hamlet_

Arthur sighs, all the hope he’d had of mending things between them draining from his body. But instead of deflating, Arthur stands taller, spine ridged, hope being replaced by determination.

“Okay, Eames,” he says quietly. “You’re pissed, I get it. If it makes any difference, I’m sorry it came to this.” Here Arthur leans into Eames’ space, bracing his hands on the chair arms, bracketing Eames’ body. “But I _do not_ have time for it.”

Arthur is scant inches from Eames and there’s a moment where it feels like time slows down. Arthur can see Eames’ eyes dilate; can almost hear his heartbeat quicken.

But then it’s gone. Nothing but the twist in Arthur’s gut to indicate it happened at all.

“By all means then, Arthur,” Eames inclines his head slightly, brushing his lips lightly against Arthur’s, turning each word into a mockery of a kiss. “Ask your bloody questions so I can get the fuck out of your presence.”

Arthur doesn’t react. He can’t react. For both of their sakes he must be a heartless bastard.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Mr. Eames,” Arthur kiss-whispers, nipping cruelly at Eames’ bottom lip before making his way to the desk, turning his back on the hurt in Eames’ eyes.

Arthur gathers the tattered remains of his resolve along with the relevant files, adopting a disinterested air as her faces Eames once more.

“Tell me Eames,” Arthur hesitates for an almost imperceptible moment. “How much do you actually know about your most recent employer?”

 _That_ was not his line. It’s not the question he was supposed to ask.

Arthur’s _supposed_ to knock Eames off balance. Hit him with surveillance photos, private details, all the information Arthur has spent a decade collecting. Force him to guess how much Arthur knows, how long he’s been plotting against Eames. Make him wonder if the precious secrets of his life that he holds so dear are even worth the price of his next meal, let alone his freedom.

This interrogation method is a classic for a reason. Eames will know the play, but there’s only so much any person can take before they make a mistake. Before hunger, dehydration and sleep deprivation combine with the mind games and Eames lets something slip: A name. A place. Some seemingly insignificant detail that Eames will believe Arthur knows already. All Arthur needs is one good lead. Just one and he can stop all this, stop torturing them both.

Stop pretending that this-

Arthur’s working from a set script, is the point. A well thought out, well researched plan and the first step is definitely not giving Eames control by asking him a question so obvious it has Eames leaning back like his chair has been transformed into a throne and looking at Arthur with something akin to thinly veiled contempt…only without the veiling.

“I for one am shocked, don’t tell me that the Great Arthur needs the assistance of a lowly forger such as myself just to get a little background information,” Eames tisks. “Surely you know more about the gentleman than I ever could.”

Arthur swallows past the sudden and painful lump in his throat. Eames has no idea how much Arthur wishes that was true. How desperately he _needs_ that to be true. Because if it isn’t then he never really knew Eames at all. It means that Eames has been playing out his role for over five years, and that Arthur fell for it.

If Eames has been conning Arthur all this time, and Eames is physically capable of it, if he’s best actor Arthur’s ever seen awake or dreaming, then Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know. Because he’s already committed treason for Eames, and there’s no turning back now.

~*~*~

 _We cross our bridges when we come to them, and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.  
\- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_

Eames’ lip still stings from Arthur’s nip, sharp and painful, like so many things today.

What’s worse is that despite the bite, his lips still tingle, still feel like they’re vibrating with the gentle caress Arthur had ghosted across them. Eames can still feel him, a lingering sense that he can’t shake and all Eames wants to do right now is scrub his hand across his lips and wipe all traces of Arthur from him.

Instead all he _can_ do is recline as much as humanly possible considering his bonds and mock Arthur. Not a remedy to his predicament by any means, but it is vindictively satisfying. Eames has never been above being petty when the situation allows for it.

Distantly he thinks he can hear a crowd booing him.

“How about this Eames,” Arthur’s voice breaks in on his musing. “You tell me all you know about your former employer, and then I’ll tell you all I know. Is that more fair than my previous offer?”

“Entirely fair, but for one glaring problem,” Eames replies, resisting the urge to scrape his teeth across his lips in an attempt to erase the memory of Arthur from them. “I don’t give sod all about my former boss or what you know about him. It was a job Arthur, nothing more.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches in a way that must be painful. He takes a breath and exhales slowly, the air hissing out of him sounding like an angry cat.

“Okay,” he grimaces, setting down his files with a determined thump. “I’ll go first. Your former employer’s name is Hugo Roeser-”

“Yes Arthur, I already knew that, thank you.” Is there something beyond petty? Because if so that’s what Eames is going to aim for; his head hurts, his body aches and the one person he thought he could trust has instead trussed him up like a Christmas ham, but Eames can still be a royal pain in the ass. Not that he’s actually a royal…as far as anyone knows.

“Eames,” Arthur presses his hand against his head like it’s paining him. Good. “Would it kill you to cooperate a little? Just a little, I’m not asking for his top secret bank accounts or the peach cobbler recipe that’s been handed down in his family for generations. I just want a little, harmless information, that’s all.”

“I don’t know, Arthur>” Eames is feeling far more sober than he likes when it comes to mocking. “Won’t it?”

“I think you mean ‘is it’, as in ‘is it really harmless information I’m after’,” Arthur frowns.

“No Arthur, although I do appreciate you trying to tell me what I mean, and perhaps next time you’ll be so kind as to read my mind,” Eames’ hands curl into fists almost against his will. “However just this once I actually did mean what I said, as in ‘won’t it kill me to cooperate, even just a little’? If the information I have is all that’s keeping me alive then what incentive do I have to share any of it?”

Arthur’s mouth drops open slightly. It’s a good approximation of surprise, almost makes Eames feel like shit for obliquely accusing Arthur of planning to kill him once this is all over. Almost. It’s certainly not what motivates him to continue instead of leaving Arthur to twist in the wind.

“What does it matter anyway? Why do you care that Roeser cheats on his taxes but not on his wife or if he loves small children and puppies? What does it matter, Arthur?”

Arthur swallows, hard. Stepping forward he once again braces himself against Eames’ chair, but it’s different this time. Gentle.

“I’m going to make you a promise, Eames; for however long this job takes, I will not lie to you. I will be completely honest with you, if you’re honest with me.”

Eames laughs sadly.

“Always that one little catch, Arthur.”

“I haven’t lied to you yet Eames, not once. Can you say the same?”

It’s Eames’ turn to squirm, albeit without any squirming. Truth is that Eames hasn’t really lied to Arthur either, and not just since he woke up cable tied to this bloody chair, ever. Eames is a master of deception, he lies as easily as he breathes, he’s lied about so many things so often that some of them have become truer than the original truths he began with. But Arthur…he’s never fallen for any of Eames’ lines and more importantly, Eames has never wanted him to. Half truths and omission are the fabric which makes up their relationship, but he doesn’t know if he’s even capable of lying to Arthur anymore.

Eames is spared from answering by the timely ringing of Arthur’s cell phone.

~*~*~

 _That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.  
\- Hamlet_

Shit, fuck, and God damn it all to hell!

Arthur reluctantly moves away from where he’d been crouched in Eames’ space, breathing his air, shaking off the feeling of ‘too close’ and ‘not close enough’ as he looks at his caller ID. The name flashing before him causes his back to straighten almost imperceptibly, but Eames will still have noticed. He notices everything.

Arthur flips the phone open before the call can go to his voice mail, answering with a crisp “Yes, sir?” as he walks behind Eames to the very edge of the room. It’s a risk; the only card Arthur has right now is that his superiors can’t prove that he has Eames, and if the forger says anything they’re both fucked. But something deep in his gut doesn’t sit well with the idea of leaving Eames alone, unprotected and vulnerable with operatives of Dreamshare around, even if that operative is only on the phone.

The voice on the other end of the line is male, a little older than middle-aged and warm with fake affection. It belongs to Colonel Darren Bartel, second in command at Dreamshare. Although when Arthur met him he was only a Captain heading Project Somnacin’s Alpha Team.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” He hates this. Hates that he’s in a position where he has to call this bastard ‘Sir’, hates that he’s working with Dreamshare again, and he hates even more that he doesn’t have a choice.

Bartel’s next words make Arthur grit his teeth. When they met for the first time, Bartel’s ‘golly-gee’ joviality had simply irritated him; now it makes his skin crawl. Reluctantly he looks back at Eames, Bartel’s threats causing his fists to clench hard enough to make his cell creak under the pressure.

“I understand, Sir.” Arthur doesn’t waver and neither man says any more on the subject.

The rest of the conversation is something of a blur, a combination of routine questions and oh-so-kind offers of assistance should the workload be proving too much for him. Arthur answers each verbal probe with a respectful parry. Finally the call ends and Arthur hangs up, calm, cool, detached; it’s the only way to keep Dreamshare out of his business: by making them believe he’s just as ruthless as he was when he worked for them. He _is_ still that ruthless of course, just not on their behalf. They really should have remembered that before they pressured him into taking this job.

Before they threatened his friends.

Before they sent Arthur photos of Dom and the kids at the market, of Ariadne going to class, of Eames exiting a nondescript building with a mysteriously bulging bag; that they would dare to come at him through the people he cares about just proves that they never really knew Arthur at all.

He isn’t really worried about most of his team; it’s more the principal of the thing. You do not fuck with Arthur or Arthur’s people and get away with it. Arthur already called Saito and Yusuf, not that anyone could get to them anyway. Saito is better protected than the Pope, and once Yusuf vacated his shop there was no way to track him, he had too many hidden places in Mombasa and the surrounding area to ever be caught. Dom had been informed that he needed to take some extra precautions and Ariadne was staying with Miles for a little while, he still had enough clout to protect her. But really, there wasn’t much that could be done to them, legally speaking. Saito had an army of lawyers making sure he could kill someone and be given the key to the city for it, none of Yusuf’s compounds were technically illegal since they technically didn’t exist, Dom’s entire legal history had been wiped clean with one phone call and neither he nor Ariadne are doing any dream work these days since Dom is retired and Ariadne is finishing her education.

Eames on the other hand…well, even if extraction isn’t strictly speaking legal, it’s not strictly speaking illegal either, unless you count the occasional bout of kidnapping that goes with it. But Eames still has his fingers in many pies, from dreaming, to real world heists, to the forgeries he specializes in when he’s bored or needs a quick buck. Eames could be arrested and no one would bat an eye. Eames could be taken from the middle of a crowded street by men in black and there would be nothing Arthur could do to stop it or to get him back.

The others are relatively safe, protected by laws that even governments still had to abide by some of the time. Bartel won’t risk going after them just to spite Arthur, not when he has other options, but Eames….

After he got those photos in the mail Arthur accepted the job without a second thought. His next step was insisting that Eames be a part of his team so he could keep an eye on the forger, make him invaluable so that their old bosses couldn’t try and use him for leverage. It was perfect, they would do this one job, get in, get out, Arthur would kill Bartel in a way that looked accidental, and they would get gone. The perfect plan.

Too bad nobody told Eames. The man’s penchant for improvisation was very nearly the death of him.

One minute Arthur was fantasizing about introducing Bartel to a needle filled with air and the next he had the man himself screaming down the phone at Arthur that Eames had taken a job working for Hugo Roeser and just what the fuck does he think he’s playing at. One minute Eames was safe and the next he was being branded a terrorist. One minute Arthur was doing prep work in Paris and the next he was on a plane to Marseille praying that he could get to Eames before anyone else did.

Bartel knows Arthur has Eames, the man’s an idiot but he’s not stupid. However Arthur had been furious when they’d spoken on the phone just a few short weeks ago, he’d raged about betrayal and sticking his neck out for a traitor, and he had practically been able to see Bartel’s smug smiling face half a world away. So they pretend Arthur doesn’t know where Eames is and that Bartel is scouring the globe for him. And as long as Bartel keeps believing that Arthur will do what’s needed, what Bartel legally _can’t_ do on American soil, to get any information Eames might have, Arthur will be allowed to keep him. But Bartel isn’t known for his patience and there’s only so long Arthur can keep this charade going before someone on Bartel’s team manages to break through his security measures and track him to the warehouse. Before those men in black repel in, put a bag over Eames’ head and steal him away to an undisclosed location for some ‘alternative interrogation techniques’ that leave his body broken and his mind shattered.

Arthur _will not_ let that happen.

~*~*~

 _Generally speaking, things have gone about as far as they can possibly go, when things have gotten about as bad as they can reasonably get.  
\- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_

Arthur has been on the phone maybe ten minutes, but for Eames it feels like an eternity.

Okay, he’s being dramatic again, but it still feels like a hell of a lot bloody longer than ten minutes. Of course, Eames thinks, he’s entitled to a little drama under the circumstances.

Questions of dramatics aside, Arthur is still on the phone, that’s the salient detail here. Answered a call from some shadowy figure and is now somewhere behind him doing a strip tease for all Eames knows, not exactly like Eames can owl his head around to see what Arthur’s up to. Naturally Arthur is still in the room; now that Eames is awake he won’t just leave Eames sitting here, too big a risk of escape.

However, escape, as astonishing as it may seem, is the last thing on Eames’ mind right now. It’s impossible, he knows that, has been over every conceivable scenario at least a dozen times since regaining consciousness. As things stand, escape is not a viable possibility.

Which leaves Eames with only one option: He has to die.

No, he’s not being overly dramatic again, though perhaps he is going about the thought process with certain flair. But the fact remains, Eames must die. And as there are only two people currently in the building, he needs to get Arthur to kill him.

Eames is definitely not in any hurry to rush his death; he always hoped to die at a ripe old age surrounded by priceless treasures like the Mona Lisa and Arthur. Of course he realizes that realistically he won’t live to see middle-age and in that case his preferred method of dispatch is a firing squad. He loves the whole ambiance of a good, old fashioned execution. Being escorted out by the guard he’d grown to have a grudging respect and almost friendship for, developed over the long, bitter nights of his incarceration. The final cigarette offered with ceremony and a kind of fondness for his wit and courage at the end of it all. The blindfold he would graciously decline because no matter how unexpected Eames himself is he still hates surprises. The steady beat of a drum as his jailors take aim. The reports from half a dozen rifles, slicing through the cacophony and in their wake, nothing but silence, stillness save for his body falling to the ground.

He doesn’t have those options now, no proper firing squad; no long life lived to the fullest with someone he loved. But he would have an execution…and Arthur in the end, just not how he envisioned either. Not too surprising really, life rarely turned out the way Eames hoped it would. Still, he wishes that he could spare Arthur this. Not that Arthur will actually be upset by killing Eames, but since Eames is the dead-man-sitting, he’ll just go ahead and pretend that Arthur will be deeply heartbroken by the action he’s about to be pushed into.

But there’s nothing for it, Eames has been over every word, every look, every minute facial expression of Arthur’s since he walked into the pub last night and swept Eames off his bar stool. Put together with the surveillance photos, the phone call Arthur is still on and the occasional “Yes Sir” floating back to Eames and it all adds up to one simple yet incomprehensible fact: Arthur’s working for his government again. The same people who kicked him to the curb when they got tired of playing with their toy soldiers (not that Eames’ superiors were any better). Arthur was once again in their pocket and judging by eye movement and pupil dilation and contraction during key parts of their conversations, Arthur was feeling exceedingly guilty about something, something big.

Something like turning Eames over to the black ops section of the governmental agency formerly known as Dreamshare. Not that he’ll have any other option, not if he wants to live. Eames just can’t believe that Arthur would willingly put himself at their tender mercy again, they were both lucky to have escaped from the program with little more than minor flesh wounds and slightly traumatized minds. Arthur knows that. Knows what kind of people they are, what they’re capable of.

Arthur knows what will happen when Dreamshare get their hands on Eames. He knows full well the torture: physical, emotional, mental and subconscious that Eames will endure. It won’t matter if Eames genuinely doesn’t know anything of import or that he’s willing to tell them everything he knows about Hugo Roeser. It won’t matter that eventually Eames will break and tell them everything he’s ever known. That he’ll betray everything he holds dear just to make the pain stop, he’ll even make up lies and tell them anything he can think of just to make them happy, and still it won’t be over. They will torture Eames until his throat is little more than torn flesh, raw from screaming, until his body is beyond what any human being can endure and still survive, until his mind is a puddle of goo made up of blood and nightmares.

And then if he is very, _very_ lucky, they’ll let him die.

Eames won’t let that happen. He can’t. Even if he didn’t care what would become of him (and he really, really does) he can’t let those people get their hands on the person he pulled this job with. He can’t betray the one person left in this world that he truly loves and trusts. Because if he’s taken by Dreamshare that’s exactly what he’s going to do- and then they’re going to do to Charlie what they did to Eames.

So clearly Eames needs to die, the sooner the better. But to do that he needs Arthur off the bloody phone, and that’s why it’s really not being too dramatic to say it feels like an eternity since the bastard took that call.

His thoughts begin to circle back around to the beginning, the cycle starting afresh, going over each piece of information again and again. Starting, as it always does, with Arthur.

Arthur who asks Eames if he’s okay after they’ve been shot at, Arthur who smiles that small, private smile at Eames’ crappy jokes, Arthur who picks the chair next to Eames more often than not, choosing to be in Eames space and to let Eames be in his…. Arthur who drugged and kidnapped him, Arthur who plans to turn Eames over to Dreamshare for his thirty pieces of silver, Arthur who-

“A militarization would require at least a two-man team.”

Arthur who is standing beside him, bugger and shit. He couldn’t have ended his secret phone call when Eames was pondering his inevitable and gruesome torture? No, Arthur had to come back while Eames was still in the reminiscing, disbelieving stage of the cycle. Wait, what was Arthur talking about now?

“Are you listening to me, Eames? I said, ‘who were you working with’?”

Ah. Well, that changes things doesn’t it? Not so hard to feel hostile now, thank you Arthur.

“Sadly,” Eames sighs. “I never caught the individual’s name.” Slow, he needs to start slow, too much too quickly and Arthur will know what he’s up to.

“You never caught-” Arthur repeats incredulously. “Eames, you cannot possibly expect me to believe that you worked a job without knowing the guy’s social security number and whether he wears boxers or briefs, let alone his name.”

“How are you so sure I was working with a man, Arthur?” Deny everything, confuse the facts, only way to keep the ball on his side of the court.

“You’re right, how very sexist of me, her social and if she wears panties or a thong.”

“I never said they were a woman, Arthur, just asked how you were so certain they were a man.”

Arthur glared; clearly his phone conversation had left him in an ill humor, Eames could work with that.

“Fine, let’s begin with the basics; was your associate a man or a woman?”

“Impossible to tell really,” Eames grinned. “I never actually met them.”

“You- Then why would you work with them, Eames?”

“They came very highly recommended, or at least they claimed to be, said that the two of you were very close. In fact they knew quite a lot about you, Arthur. I just figured that any friend of yours would be competent and resourceful in the field, no need for further examination.” Make counter-accusations, doesn’t matter if they can be easily disproved, if Arthur’s bosses get a video feed of this they’ll have to look into the possibility, and if Arthur kills Eames they’ll have to wonder if he did it to protect Eames’ partner. Hopefully creating enough of a false trail that by the time they get wise, Charlie will have been able to go underground.

“You realize I don’t believe a word of what you’re telling me, right?”

“What else is new, Arthur?”

There’s that look again, that guilty, pained expression. Eames is getting really tired of feeling like a monster for making the man who’s handing him over to be tortured to death sad.

“Why won’t you just tell me who you were working with, Eames?” Arthur sounds tired, tired is not what Eames needs right now.

“Why is it so important, Arthur?”

“That’s…I can’t tell you, Eames, it’s for your own good. There are factors at work here that you don’t-”

“Oh what complete and utter bollocks, Arthur,” and maybe getting angry isn’t the wisest course of action at the moment, but that’s just too much. “Don’t give me that ‘top secret’ bullshit, I know perfectly well what so-called factors are at work and they have nothing to do with _my_ good.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur sounds genuinely confused, which just adds fuel to Eames’ righteous fire.

“I know you’ve never had the greatest of faith in my intellectual abilities Arthur, but please, do not treat me like an imbecile,” and it shouldn’t hurt, not after all this time. Not considering what Arthur’s planning to do to him, but it does. Things always hurt more than they should when it comes to Arthur. “A five year old could figure out that you’re working for the government again. That you’re allowing Dreamshare to bend you over once more and that to compensate you’re fucking me over as well.”

“I’m not,” Arthur stops, seemingly at a loss. “Is that what you really think of me?”

“What’s to think, Arthur? I _know_ ,” Eames laughs but it sounds broken and wrong. “The surveillance photos, the phone call, your interest in Roeser-”

“What about Roeser?” Arthur cuts in.

Damn Arthur, so very goal oriented, can’t even let a little thing like an emotional blowout get in the way of the job.

“Fuck you,” Eames spits. “You’re not getting it that easily. If you want to know about him so badly, then call in your goons, because nothing short of the very special interrogation method of the Dreamshare personnel is going to get me to say another word about him.”

Arthur blanches. Actually fucking blanches, looking sick at the mere thought. Eames was trained by the best, just like Arthur. He goes in for the kill.

“That’s right, Arthur, I almost forgot. You know all about their methods, don’t you? You know all about the pain and the fear, the stink of people so overrun by nightmares that they begin to shut down, to rot while the body is still technically alive. Only technically mind you, after all, you’re the best there is at your job.”

“Shut up.” Arthur’s pulled his gun and Eames isn’t sure when it happened, he’s pretty sure Arthur isn’t either. “You shut your mouth, Eames.”

“Why, is the truth too much for poor little Arthur to handle?” This is it, the kill. Eames would take a moment to be proud that he’s probably the only person on the planet who can commit suicide by proxy, but he’s too far gone, too mired in hurt and memories to see past this moment. Past the barrel of Arthur’s gun pointing shakily at Eames’ head.

“Like you’re so innocent? How do you know what I did, Eames? Oh, that’s right, you were there too,” Arthur gestures between them both with the gun. “We did those things, _we_ followed orders and committed horrible atrocities against even worse people.”

“Yeah that’s right, _we_ did, Arthur. But then we got out. Dreamshare spat us up and we were free. So how can you do it?” If Eames is a dead man anyway, he wants to know. He needs to know _why_. "What could be so important? Hmm? What could be worth risking your life, your sanity, your _soul_ to work for those bastards again, Arthur? Do you think they care about you? Do you think for one second that if something goes wrong in the dream that they would do anything other than put a bullet in your brain, and that's if you're lucky? So tell me, is it money? Reinstatement? You never have to pay taxes again? _What?_ "

Arthur’s just standing there like a statue save for the still shaking hand holding his gun, and the sight of Arthur, _Arthur_ of all the cold-hearted perfect soldiers to be turned out of Dreamshare holding a gun like it’s a foreign object instead of an extension of himself breaks something deep inside Eames. The anger and the hurt drain away and all he’s left with is confusion and the need to understand. Why would Arthur put himself in this position, why would he risk his sense of morality, of decency, of _self_ just to work with Dreamshare again?

"What could possibly be worth all this, Arthur?"

Arthur’s eyes, which had been lifeless, snap back into focus, fixing Eames to his chair with a glare more effective than all of the zip ties in the world. His grip on the gun steadies as he stalks towards Eames, seeming to gain confidence with each step.

For the first time since Eames woke up, he’s seeing Arthur for real. He’s not the man who produced this farce, he’s not playing a part, he’s just Arthur, and he’s terrifying in his desolation.

"Do you really wanna know, Eames?” He asks with deadly calm. “Because it wasn't money, it wasn't a job or governmental favors or _anything_ you've thought up in that thick head of yours." Eames can feel the frustration and anger radiating from Arthur, shooting off sparks like a gathering storm.

Arthur slides onto the chair, straddling Eames and he feels almost like he’s been electrocuted: Jumpy and wired and waiting for the next strike. Only to get doused in ice water.

"Human beings are so fragile, Eames," Arthur says, the barrel of his gun gliding up Eames’ rib cage. "We're nothing but bags of blood, just skin and muscle covering bone and organs, and it would be so easy...so very easy to stop your heart and put out that twinkle in your eyes for good,” Arthur’s voice catches and the gun comes to a halt pressed close to Eames’ neck.

Eames can see something terrible and vulnerable in Arthur crumble, something which had been holding the nightmares at bay. Arthur inches closer, so close Eames is moving Arthur's body with his own as he breathes in and out. But Arthur’s not looking at Eames, not exactly. His eyes seem fixated on Eames’ throat, where Eames can feel cool metal against his leaping pulse.

"It was you," Arthur whispers. Like it's the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. "They knew you had pulled the Roeser job and they were going to take you,” and finally, _finally_ Arthur drags his eyes up to meet Eames’. “So I took you first."

~*~*~

 _Doubt thou the stars are fire;  
Doubt that the sun doth move;  
Doubt truth to be a liar;  
But never doubt I love.  
\- Hamlet_

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. This isn’t in the script. But as Arthur sees Eames’ expression clear with something like understanding and awe, he can’t find it within himself to care.

Arthur reaches back with the hand not currently holding a gun on Eames to grab his knife, flicking it open in the scant space between them. Eames eyes widen slightly and his heart beats more quickly, Arthur keeps the switchblade steady in front of Eames’ eyes. He holds it there like a challenge, ‘do you trust me?’ it asks.

It’s too soon for gambles like this, they’re both too raw, but that’s part of the problem. There’s an ache settled deep in Arthur’s core and he doesn’t know how to make the pain stop, he just knows that he needs Eames to trust him still. Eames searches Arthur’s face, Arthur doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what he finds there but he relaxes again, like a man who doesn’t have a Glock 17 pressed against his pulse. The answer is ‘yes’, a nearly undetectable ‘for now’ lingering in the twitch of Eames’ jaw.

Arthur reaches around behind Eames, slicing through the zip tie binding his hands before leaning back to close the switchblade and return the knife to a pocket. Eames lets out a slight groan, stiffly bringing his hands in front of him, rubbing life and blood back into limbs which have been deprived of both for several hours. Arthur can feel every twitch of Eames body, the way his muscles pull and loosen as he moves his shoulders, the tension filling him now that his hands are free, the way his muscles tighten as he prepares to spring into action, grab the gun from Arthur. Maybe it’ll go off killing Eames, maybe he’ll get it away and kill Arthur, either way this is going to end in bloodshed and Arthur can feel it all before it even happens.

Only it doesn’t.

There’s no sudden movement, no action movie heroics, just Eames settling back into the chair still rubbing absently at his wrists. The motion draws Arthur’s gaze, the skin there is red, raw and broken in places where Eames strained against the ties. Arthur reaches out, taking one hand and drawing it up to his lips. Placing a gentle kiss on the torn flesh he breathes out a gentle “I’m sorry,” at the same time Eames rumbles out a “Thank you.”

Arthur’s startled eyes meet Eames’ calm ones. ‘Thank you for what?’ he wants to ask. ‘For kidnapping you, for shredding your wrists, for still holding a gun against your throat,’ Arthur’s grip on the gun tightens slightly. ‘For torturing people and thinking that it being an order made everything okay, for allowing Dreamshare back into our lives, for being such an awful person that you would assume I was planning on turning you over to them, for-’

“Shhh,” Eames brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s face. “Hush all those thoughts, darling,” and it’s like a slap. Arthur drops Eames’ wrist like he’s been burned.

All this time, not once did Eames call him by any of his stupid pet names. Not that Arthur blames him, he’d been kidnapped and held prisoner. It’s not exactly the sort of thing that would make a person want to coo endearments, especially not to their captor. So why does Eames choose now, now of all times, to start them up again?

Does he not understand that he’s being straddled by a crazy guy with a gun at his throat? Arthur’s already proven himself to be a monster, Eames has _seen_ what Arthur is capable of. Eames thought Arthur capable of so much worse, thought that he would allow Eames to be taken by Dreamshare. How can he call Arthur, darling? How can he bare to have Arthur touching him? How can he resist the chance to steal Arthur’s gun away and use it against him? It’s right there, Arthur won’t even fight back.

Arthur doesn’t deserve to fight back.

Eames seems to sense the change in Arthur. He grabs Arthur’s gun hand, and when had he begun trembling again? Eames steadies Arthur, sliding the gun from where it had slipped to rest against the side of his neck until it’s positioned directly under Eames’ chin. Eames lets go of Arthur and the gun, moving his own hand to rest at Arthur’s waist.

“I trust you.” Unequivocal. A brief statement quietly said with all the calm assurance of a man proclaiming the Earth to revolve around the Sun. “I trust you, Arthur.”

Arthur lets something choked and vulnerable escape him and he’s on Eames in an instant. His lips searching out Eames’ own, chasing after that small, scared noise which had left Arthur and taken refuge in the strength of Eames beneath him.

It feels like a nightmare cold has seeped into his bones causing them to fracture at his weakest points and now he’s shaking apart. Arthur attempts to encroach further into Eames’s space, the open heat of his mouth like salvation leading Arthur deeper.

He uses his free hand to undo the top few buttons of Eames’ shirt, burrowing closer like a hypothermia victim seeking warmth. Eames lets out a pained moan, the barrel of Arthur’s Glock digging deeply into the soft tissue at his neck. Arthur begins to pull back, an apology already on his lips when Eames bucks up into him, brushing their cocks together through far too many layers of clothing, sending electricity racing across every inch of Arthur’s skin.

In the wake of electricity a curious calm rushes through him. Arthur can taste it in Eames’ helpless writhing and the steadiness of his own hand: control. Arthur harshly jabs the gun up against Eames’ jaw. This time the moan is less pained and more aroused and if Eames wasn’t hard before, he definitely is now.

“Seriously?” Arthur asks, incredulous and slightly lightheaded with power.

“Hey, he who makes out whilst holding a gun doesn’t get to complain when said gun takes on some…erotic aspects in the mind of the make out recipient.”

Arthur just stares at Eames, he’s flushed, sweaty, lips kiss swollen, eyes dark with lust and after an evening barhopping followed by spending the night in this chair, in need of a tic-tac. In short: He’s the most beautiful thing Arthur’s ever seen.

And if Eames likes the Glock, then Arthur is damn well keeping the Glock. Arthur chooses not to contemplate any other reason for keeping it or why the idea of getting rid of the gun makes his hand jerk dangerously and instead focuses on Eames. On how after everything Arthur’s done to him, he’s not only letting Arthur take control, Eames is giving it to him.

Another noise escapes from Arthur, but this one isn’t weak, it’s hungry.

Arthur surges forward, claiming Eames’ lips, using the Glock to adjust the angle of the kiss, forcing Eames’ head up. Eames dick twitches as he pushes back against the deadly metal, making choked sounding whines.

Arthur grabs Eames by his hair, yanking him out of the kiss and off the gun.

“Now, now,” Arthur purrs, tilting Eames’ head back, further exposing his throat. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself, do we Eames?” Arthur licks a strip up the center of Eames’ neck, digging his tongue into the sore spot under Eames’ chin where the gun had scraped and bruised. “That’s my job,” he whispers, shoving the Glock back beneath Eames’ chin, cutting off his gasp with lips and tongue.

Eames’ hands scramble furiously across Arthur’s body like he can’t decide what he wants to touch most. Thigh or shoulder? Hip or chest? One hand comes to rest quite happily on Arthur’s delectable ass, but the other continues to roam, caressing every inch of Arthur it can reach.

Arthur did this. Arthur managed to turn the most competent and guarded person he’s ever known into the openly desperate man currently raking his fingers down Arthur’s back.

And he is just getting started.

Arthur pulls away from Eames by inches, slowly extricating himself from the other man’s grasp. Eames makes disappointed noises as he tries to hold on to Arthur more firmly and Arthur nips his lip, an echo from earlier rising between them. Arthur soothes the bite before pulling off completely.

“Stay,” his voice is wrecked but firm as he climbs off Eames, slipping the Glock into his waistband.

Eames had been searched thoroughly when Arthur brought him here. Two guns, three knives, brass knuckles, a pair of handcuffs, and in a hidden interior pocket of his jacket, a travel size bottle of lube and a couple condoms, Arthur was impressed and more than a little turned on by his preparedness. Arthur had left the weapons in his office but Eames’ jacket along with its contents had been hung up with Arthur’s considerably more expensive suit jacket next to the backdoor. Since Arthur hadn’t exactly planned on jumping Eames when he kidnapped him it seems that the forger is the one ready for every eventuality this time.

Arthur grabs the supplies from Eames’ jacket, pausing momentarily over the handcuffs. No. Maybe some other time, please let there be some other time, they could experiment with bondage; but for right now Arthur wants Eames free, unbound and able to say “no” if that’s what he wants. More importantly, he wants Eames able to say “yes”, and have it be genuine. Logically Eames should be attempting to escape right now; Arthur picks up the pace feeling a bit selfish that he doesn’t want to give Eames a chance to return to his senses, hell he doesn’t want to give _himself_ a chance to return to his senses.

Arthur turns to Eames, expecting to find him struggling to free himself. But Eames is still sitting in the chair his back to Arthur, legs still zip tied, shirt still half undone exactly how Arthur had left him. Arthur feels a thrill of power rush through him.

Eames hasn’t moved a muscle.

Arthur takes a deep breath as it hits him that Eames is still here, really _here_. A flush of desire drains all the blood from his brain and nimble fingers search out his tie, silk whispering as the cloth slides out of its knot. Eames’ shoulders tense slightly at the sound, but he makes no move to turn around. Instead remaining silent, trusting in Arthur; and that…well, that just makes Arthur’s hands work faster.

Every move he makes has Eames twitching in anticipation. Before long shirt joins tie on the floor and Arthur’s naked from the waist up with no intension of stopping anytime soon. The clink of his belt buckle makes Eames jump, the sound of his zipper being slowly drawn down causes Eames’ whole body to twitch with the need to turn around. To see. But still he resists, jaw clenched, hands white-knuckled on chair arms, he stays. Just like Arthur told him.

Shoes and socks are the next to go, toed off with the usual lack of grace that accompanies the act and Arthur takes a moment to be thankful for Eames’ not seeing that particular move. He takes the Glock from his waistband next, double checking that the safety is still on. They’ve both been incredibly stupid, if their training officers could see them now…well they’d probably have issues with more than just Arthur and Eames’ lack of gun safety, but the point is they’re behaving irresponsibly and should stop.

Arthur should stop.

He lets his pants fall, stepping out of the legs and keeps walking until he’s standing in front of Eames wearing nothing but his briefs; condom and lube in one hand, Glock in the other. Eames’ eyes widen, his mouth forming a silent “oh” as he takes Arthur in. Looks at Arthur like he’s actually something worth looking at, and the things Arthur ‘should’ do have never seemed less important.

“Heads up,” Arthur says just before he tosses the bottle of lube to Eames, condom following quickly after. Eames catches both easily, but fumbles slightly when he recognizes them for what they are.

Eyes locked with Eames, Arthur dips the Glock’s barrel into his briefs. Using the gun he slowly starts to slip the thin material down. Bringing up his now free hand he hooks his thumb into the elastic of the brief, easing its slide downwards, putting on a real show for Eames.

Eames remains seated, seemingly unable to move a muscle as Arthur’s cock is freed and he casually kicks away his final article of clothing. Arthur straightens slightly and he can feel Eames study him with a meticulous eye to detail. Arthur would compare it to the way Eames studies a subject he needs to forge except…except that there’s always something a little cold in his eyes when he’s evaluating a potential mark. Something detached.

There is definitely nothing detached about the way Eames is looking at Arthur now, from the flush in his cheeks to the slope of his hips. Arthur can feel Eames’ gaze on him like a living thing, a warm touch caressing every inch of him, making him shiver in anticipation.

Eames breaks the silence first, brokenly whispering “Arthur,” into the stale air of the warehouse, and that’s all it takes. That’s it; one word and all of Arthur’s hard-won patience flies out the proverbial window. He wants Eames, and he’s going to have him.

Eames whines, small and needy in the back of his throat as Arthur steps closer, a nod of his head letting Eames know he’s allowed to touch. In a flash of ink and muscles Arthur is hauled once more onto Eames’ lap, straddling him while Eames runs his hands reverently over Arthur’s skin.

Skin, which is something very much lacking on Eames’ part.

“This simply will not do,” Arthur breathes across Eames lips. His fingers quickly unfasten the remaining buttons of Eames’ shirt. “Off,” he orders, voice barely above a growl.

Eames shivers and rushes to comply. Shrugging the shirt off his shoulders he reluctantly tears his hands away from Arthur’s body long enough to remove the offending garment completely.

Arthur greedily drinks in the wealth of skin before him, running hands and gun across Eames chest. Slowly he brings the Glock back up to Eames throat; gently he glides it down the side of Eames’ neck, along his shoulder, tracing the swirling black lines of his tattoo over deltoid, triceps and biceps with the deadly weapon.

Feeling a bit like a child who’s trying to color inside the lines, Arthur shifts closer to Eames, gingerly he nips at the spot where the gun had begun its journey. Eames’ sharp gasp has Arthur grinning against vulnerable flesh. Carefully Arthur licks the hurt away, following the path that the Glock had taken, and he could swear that he tastes the remnants of cold metal on Eames’ skin. It’s intoxicating.

Arthur returns the gun to Eames’ throat, this time moving down the other side of his neck, gliding across his shoulder- he stops.

There, marring the perfect imperfections of Eames’s skin, the scar left behind when a 9mm hollow point ripped into Eames shoulder, mushrooming on impact. Arthur presses against the scar tissue with his own 9mm, Eames hisses slightly at the pressure. Arthur replaces the gun with his tongue, tracing the edges of ragged flesh, cataloguing the differences between slick scar and unharmed skin. He sinks his teeth into the edges of the scar, scraping gently across the surface and Eames bucks up into him with a soft moan, the old wound still overly sensitive even after all this time.

Arthur could do this forever. He could happily spend the rest of his life tasting Eames’ skin and learning all the ways to make him moan, cry out, come undone.

It’s one of the more terrifying thoughts that Arthur has had today.

“Eames,” Arthur breathes the name like he’s afraid anything louder will bring their enemies down on them.

“Tell me Arthur,” Eames begs. “Please, just once _tell_ me what you want from me.”

“I want you to fuck me.” The blush he’s sure is spreading across his face is worth it for the way Eames’ eyes widen and the pleasure/pain from where Eames’ hands are crushing his hips.

“Yeah, okay,” Eames stammers out. “I can do that, darling.”

Arthur’s dick gives an involuntary twitch at the endearment but if Eames notices, which of course he does, he’s smart enough not to say anything. Instead Eames fumbles for the lube, forgotten in his lap and warmed by the crush of their bodies.

Eames quickly slicks up a finger, pressing it gently against Arthur’s hole, not pushing in, not yet.

“Are you ready?”

Arthur has to laugh, “I’ve been ready since you marched into that Dreamshare briefing and demanded to know who was responsible for that utter cock-up we’d just woken from,” Arthur pushes himself against Eames’ finger, slowly fucking down against him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a General look more surprised or pissed off,” Arthur smiles.

“That was,” Eames’ voice catches as Arthur moves on his finger. “Over five years ago.”

“More,” Arthur instructs and thankfully Eames second finger slides in, keeping him from needing to elaborate.

“Arthur,” Eames presses.

“I know- fuck!” It’s good, the burn is so good, as his body instinctively remembers what to do, how to relax around the penetration. How to take and take and only want- “More.”

“Not until you answer me, Arthur,” Eames says flatly, like they’re just going for a stroll. Like Arthur isn’t writhing against him. “Arthur,” Eames demands again, curling his fingers _just so_ to make Arthur cry out _and_ make his point at the same time.

“Fuck! Yes, okay. Yes, it was over five years ago,” Christ, this kind of interrogation should be against the Geneva Convention. “Yes, we’d been on the same team for about three months at that point. And yes, I’ve wanted this, maybe not steadily but off and on ever since…more on than off.”

“Why didn’t-,” Eames begins but Arthur cuts in.

“Why do you think? Risk/reward analysis. You know how the military was. Risk wasn’t worth the reward. Then we were both on the lam, quickly followed by each of us making,” Arthur cuts off with a high whine, gasping a moment while he reorders his thoughts. “Making our way into illegal dream sharing, it just- oh God! Just didn’t seem wise. Especially since I didn’t know how you felt.”

“Didn’t know,” Eames says, sounding genuinely incredulous. “Why do you think I was so pissed after that exorcise?” Eames shoves a third finger in, he’s not gentle and Arthur loves it. “What happened to you down there was- I may not be able to pinpoint the moment of epiphany, as I always wanted to fuck you at least a little, but by then it was more than just,” Eames cups his cheek with his free hand. “ _You_ were more than just a fuck.”

Arthur swallows harshly against the admission.

“Please Eames, I’m ready,” he says, and it’s the closest he can come to echoing the sentiment.

Eames smiles softly because he knows anyway, he always knows. He removes his fingers and Arthur groans at the loss, watching mesmerized as Eames fumbles open his jeans, immediately freeing his cock.

“You’re not wearing underwear,” Arthur states dumbly.

“I was out looking to celebrate when you nabbed me, wasn’t I?” Eames shrugs.

“Out looking to score you mean.”

“Semantics,” Eames says grinning wolfishly as he tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it on.

Slicking up his dick, Eames guides Arthur up, adjusting him until he’s hovering just over Eames cock.

“Okay?” He asks quietly.

Arthur slams his body down in one smooth motion, fully sheathing Eames’ dick, and the fierce burn is worth it for the way Eames’ eyes roll back in his head and the strangled scream choking out of him.

“Okay,” Arthur affirms, lifting himself up before slamming home again, not giving Eames a chance to recover.

Arthur loses track of time after that, it’s just heat and friction and oh God, right _there_. Eames’ legs are still tied down so he has limited ability to match thrusts with Arthur, but he still manages to control the pace, slow Arthur down with a simple touch and a word when he’s in danger of ending things too quickly and Arthur has no idea when the power balance shifted so radically.

The Glock stays clenched in Arthur’s hand; it runs up Eames’ arms and strokes the side of his face, as much a part of Arthur as the hand holding it. The steady, comforting weight is an anchor to reality, more certain than a totem, preventing Arthur from losing himself completely in Eames.

Not an easy task when Eames is biting his way up Arthur’s chest, teasing him with teeth and tongue. Eames stops at the pulse in his neck, biting down gently and feeling the way it leaps in his mouth, affirming that Arthur is very much alive.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Eames murmurs so quietly Arthur almost misses it in the slap of skin against skin, despite Eames’ lips being so close to his ear. As if to prove this point Eames nibbles on the lobe. Of course just because Arthur heard him doesn’t mean that he has any idea what the hell Eames is talking about. “Did you think you’d lost me?” He asks, stroking up Arthur’s thigh.

“Eames,” Arthur gasps as Eames’ hand comes close to his dick. “I don’t- I,” it’s incredibly hard to concentrate with Eames tracing his hip bones, so very close to where Arthur needs him most.

Arthur pulls away slightly, distancing himself to clear his head. His mind capturing each moment like a snapshot forever frozen in time: Eames’ hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise; the desperate, pleading expression hidden in the tilt of his mouth and the sadness in his eyes; the tremor running through Eames’ body as he tries so hard to hold back…what?

What is it?

Arthur absently brings the Glock up, tucking a wayward strand of hair back behind Eames’ ear- and it’s like a movie reel playing in his head, he gets it.

A Glock 17 pressed lazily against Eames head.

A governmental agency so shrouded in mystery and words like “classified” and “need to know” that they end up accountable to no one.

A young Arthur; filled with notions of duty and Country, trained to be perfect, trained to kill, trained to dream, and so very, very green.

A younger Eames; trained just as well but never so naïve as to think that what Dreamshare told them was the truth, already too cynical to believe in much of anything anymore.

A lifetime of stolen moments, both in dreams and reality, neither of them could ever bring themselves to acknowledge, potentially wiped away by a single act of betrayal.

Only that betrayal never happened. Eames isn’t one of the bad guys, and Arthur will _never_ turn him over to Dreamshare. But those minutes when the sting of perceived deception clouded his reason to erase the man he thought he knew had been some of the worst of Arthur’s life…and considering his former occupation that’s saying quite a lot.

Arthur thought he’d lost Eames, the Eames he cared for, fought beside, trusted. He had begun to fear that man never truly existed, that Arthur had made him up out of loneliness and a need to have _someone_ he could count on.

So yeah, Arthur gets it.

The Glock clatters to the floor so Arthur can take hold of Eames with both hands.

~*~*~

 _There must have been a moment at the beginning, where we could have said no. Somehow we missed it  
\- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_

Neither of them last very long after that, Arthur dropping his last defense opened the proverbial flood gates and soon both were reduced to grunts and moans, only able to form the most basic of words.

Sex: Rewinding millions of years of evolution one earth-shattering orgasm at a time.

Eames doesn’t know exactly how long they stay like that, utterly spent, gasping into each others mouths, pressing messy kisses against every inch of skin they can reach without moving too much. But really, when faced with dramatic revelations and deep, personal truths, what does time matter anyway?

To Arthur, time still matters very much. At least, he’s the first to move; pulling off Eames as they both wince, far too sensitive. The condom is removed, tied off neatly and deposited, presumably as Eames can’t see where Arthur has gone, in the trash. Distantly there’s the sound of water running and Arthur returns wearing pants, which is a shame, and with a towel. He presses the towel against Eames chest, cleaning him off, and Eames would protest if he had the energy to do so.

Whether to tell Arthur that he doesn’t need to tend to Eames like an invalid or to beg him to leave the proof of what they’d just done, Eames isn’t sure.

“I’m afraid your pants are going to be rather obvious until you can wash them properly; the hotel I’m staying at has an excellent laundry service,” Arthur murmurs, still gently swiping at Eames’ skin like he’s afraid that if he stops he won’t be allowed to touch again.

Slowly Eames places his hand over Arthur’s halting his movement.

“I rather like them this way,” he says as he lifts Arthur’s hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across Arthur’s knuckles. “But if you insist on clean clothing, then who am I to refuse you?”

“In that case, we should probably do something about those last zip ties,” Arthur teases.

“Never fear, my love,” it takes Eames’ sex-addled brain an embarrassingly long time to realize what he just said and connect it to Arthur’s suddenly stiff posture. “I mean- I,” Eames falters, looking up into Arthur’s eyes. The hope he finds there is enough to take his breath away.

“My love,” Eames says again, softer this time. Arthur smiles and it feels like the room lights up with him.

They stay like that for another few heartbeats, grinning at each other with googly-eyes like lovesick teenagers. Naturally, Arthur is the first to regain his dignity.

“I’ll just,” he begins, patting down his pockets. “Wait, where’s my knife?”

“Ah, yes. Well, you left so suddenly earlier, to disrobe as it happens, but I didn’t know that at the time and as I wasn’t sure if you’d be coming back, I um…nicked it,” Eames babbles pulling the item in question from his own pocket.

“You stole it,” Arthur states.

“Yes.”

“While you were supposedly clinging to me in a fit of passion,” and maybe he’s listening with his hopeful ear, but Eames could swear that Arthur doesn’t sound upset so much as…turned on.

“To be fair, it wasn’t one or the other, more a happy combination of the two,” Eames defends just in case he’s wrong.

Arthur takes the knife from Eames; kneeling between Eames’ legs he flips the switchblade open.

“Do you have any idea how hot that is?” Arthur asks with a slight hitch in his breath.

“If you think that’s impressive, you should see what else I can get out of your pants without you noticing.” It’s a bad joke. One which is beneath Eames to make, but Arthur laughs and rolls his eyes and Eames doesn’t even care; he still hasn’t regained his dignity from the googly-eyes incident.

Arthur slices through the last of the zip ties and Eames is free. Only he’s not really because Arthur is still kneeling in front of him and has begun to rub his legs, massaging them back to life. Eames’ groan is a mixture of pleasure and pain, and it only makes Arthur rub harder.

“Enough, enough,” Eames finally gasps. “If you keep on that way, we’re never going to leave this bloody warehouse.”

Arthur stops abruptly and Eames’ legs protest by seizing up. Eames lets out a pained gasp, clutching at the tense muscles.

“Sorry,” Arthur quickly resumes his ministrations. “I just…you said ‘we’, and I,” Arthur swallows. “Where do we go from here,” he finally makes himself ask.

Eames closes his eyes: moment of truth.

“Roeser isn’t just a paranoid businessman with too much money, he’s an arms dealer,” Eames opens his eyes, meeting Arthur’s steady gaze. “Judging by your complete lack of surprise I’m guessing you already know this?” Arthur nods. “I swear I didn’t know before I agreed to the job, it wasn’t until I was in his subconscious that I learned his actual profession and by then it was too late to pull out. Not without risking unpleasant retribution from Roeser.”

“I understand, Eames,” Arthur assures him.

“I’m not sure you do,” Eames sighs. “Arthur, even if I had known, I might have still taken the job. You know how valuable a good arms dealer can be.”

“Eames,” Arthur interrupts. “I probably would have done the same thing. Morality isn’t as cut and dry on our side of the law.”

“Regardless, whatever Roeser’s done,” Eames says, more earnest than he’s ever been before. “Whatever it is that Dreamshare needs extracted from him, I want to help you.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur asks, his gaze searching. “It could get messy.”

“The best things in life always do,” Eames smiles, offering Arthur a hand up. “Now, as my legs seem tolerably restored and time is of the essence, we should find the rest of our clothing and get a move on.”

They dress in near silence, trading heated glances full of the promise to strip each other down to their skins again once they’re in the hotel room.

The truth now out in the open, Eames feels a great weight lift from his shoulders, relief rushing in to take its place. He’s never been more scared of screwing something up in his life; he’s never had something so worth wanting to hold onto either.

Eames doesn’t know why he bothered resisting; he didn’t stand a chance against Arthur. And Arthur’s just as far gone; he committed treason for Eames, even before he knew for sure that Eames hadn’t turned into public enemy number one.

It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. It’s love.

There must have been a moment, years ago, when they could have turned back. Some seemingly insignificant point in time where they could have traveled down a different path to become nothing more than colleagues, but they missed it.

Arthur turns back to Eames, his dimples on rare display, and Eames has never been more thankful for missed opportunities. Eames takes Arthur’s hand in his own, linking their fingers.

“Shall we exit stage left, darling?” Arthur replies by giving Eames’ hand a gentle squeeze, leading him out the door.

Somewhere behind them a curtain falls and the thunderous sound of applause fills the warehouse.

 

THE END

  



End file.
